


Target Practice

by thelemon_isinplay



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Grif is a dork, M/M, blatant Torchwood reference, mention of Sarge (Red vs. Blue), use of firearms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelemon_isinplay/pseuds/thelemon_isinplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif is having trouble not thinking (an unusual problem for the laziest of everybody's favorite team) and to clear his mind, he decides to fire off a few rounds for target practice. Things don't go quite according to plan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target Practice

It wasn't often that Grif made his way to the training area - training is, after all, a form of work, technically speaking. But he just couldn't seem to unfocus himself enough to sleep. As of late, every time he entered he and Simmons' shared quarters, his attention would wander over to the Dutch-Irish redhead who would be meticulously filing paperwork or polishing weaponry (various examples of work which landed on him because of Grif's laziness), and Grif found himself stuttering his way through failed conversations at an alarming pace. He would have to excuse himself from the room just to find another place to sleep, but the other soldier would invade his dreams as well.

Grif had even gone to the effort of trying to reason with himself before; that hadn't gone well. Grif had been sitting by himself beneath the shade of the single tree in the canyon, and he had begun to understand just what his admittedly low-count brain-cell brain had been trying to tell him - that he might just be in love with Simmons. That was the precise moment when Simmons had found him.

"Grif! I've been hunting the entire base looking for you!" Simmons' voice startled Grif from his thoughts of crisis.

"Huh?" he asked, still dazed from what he had concluded.

Simmons huffed, and Grif could almost feel him roll his eyes beneath his visor. "Come back, idiot. It's getting late, and the Blues might be out here."

"Uhh...what?"

Simmons hauled him to his feet. "Sarge needs you," he lied through clenched teeth.

"Ah, fuck. What for?" Grif asked, glad he had kept his helmet on now because he could feel the blush spreading across his face. _Stop it_ , he had scolded himself. _This is Simmons! Your only friend. You can't fuck this up now._

"I-I dunno! Just get back to the base."

Sarge had been confused and annoyed when Grif had approached him, but was amazed that he’d actually come out of the base to do work. That was why Grif ended up on patrol with Simmons, who was grateful for the company but seemed practically as awkward about the whole conversation-having thing as Grif was. The patrol had consisted of shooting at a rock for target practice, a short talk about how the Blues were probably never going to attack, and Simmons making a bunch of bad jokes that Grif laughed at despite himself.

When they had gotten back, Grif had fallen onto his bunk in exhaustion, awaking to find Simmons asleep, head tucked into the space between his crossed arms which were resting on the bed Grif was in. "Simm-" he had started, cut off by a particularly large yawn, then tried again. "Simmons. Simmons, wake up," he whispered.

Simmons had breathed in sharply, waking himself and lifting his pillow-creased face up sheepishly from the bed, a blush sweeping briefly across his pale cheeks. "Mmm. Hey, Grif."

"What are you doing?" Grif asked, surprising himself with his coherent speech.

"I didn't want to wake you up," Simmons started.

"Why would you want to -"

"Look around, Grif," Simmons said by way of explanation. Grif did, and a short 'oh' escaped his lips when he realized his error.

"I thought this pillow smelled cleaner," Grif said, face reddening. "Sorry."

Simmons smiled weakly. "That's...it's fine. My bed's probably comfier, anyways. It gets less use."

Grif chuckled, a short, sweet sound. "Yeah, it is, actually."

"You should sleep with me more often," Simmons suggested absently, then quickly stuttered out some nonsense and excused himself from the room.

"Yeah...," Grif had admitted to the empty room. "I'd like that."

That had been only last week, Grif didn't particularly remember which day though. Now, all he wanted to do was unwind by shooting the wall full of bullet holes, emptying clip after clip into the disgusting pale green paint Donut had recently covered many of the rooms in. It wasn't that he was trying to get away from his particularly attractive bunkmate or anything - in fact, he had gone to sleep and woken up hours later to find that Simmons was not there. When that realization hit him, though, he had suddenly become uneasy. His mattress was too thin and the room was too empty, the single sheet clinging to his exposed skin with sweat from the heat of the canyon.

He had pulled on a pair of grey sweats and tugged on a loose-fitting orange t-shirt over his boxers after having climbed out of bed, tired of having to try and adjust himself into a comfortable position. Everything was so damned uncomfortable, it made him want to just lay on the fucking floor in the hopes that it, at least, would provide him some amount of comfort.

Now Grif strode to the training area, fully awake and fairly annoyed at his thin mattress, gun in hand and extra ammo thrown haphazardly into the deep pockets of his grey sweatpants. He could still feel Simmons' kisses on his lips, despite the fact that it had been a dream, and could still feel the hand Simmons had put in the small of his back. _Fuck, stop thinking about it_ , Grif ordered himself.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the stray thoughts, before opening the door to the training area. His eyes immediately locked onto the thin frame sitting behind their makeshift desk. And there were those thoughts again, back with a vengeance as Simmons looked up at him, his human eye making contact with Grif's own mismatched eyes, one of which was as green and beautiful as Simmons' because it belonged to him originally.

"Oh, hey, Grif," Simmons greeted quietly, not breaking eye contact as a small smile worked its way onto his face.

Grif could feel that hand in the small of his back still, feel everything from the dream, feel Simmons' breath, warm on his skin, as he breathed sweet promises into the crook of Grif's neck, Grif's breath hitching as he understood every syllable from the dream, and oh fuck he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks and pooling in the pit of his stomach. "Simmons," he acknowledged with a forced casual nod, careful to turn away quickly and grope around the nearby table for a pair of earplugs as he steadied his breath and ignored the fact that his voice had cracked when he spoke.

Grif heard Simmons groan a little, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the other man stretching like a cat, his shirt freeing itself from where it had been neatly tucked into his regulation grey sweats and exposing a section of pale skin. _Oh, please, god, stop him from doing that. I don't know if I can take it._

Grif's silent plea went unanswered, and Simmons yawned into his cupped hands almost like an afterthought. He rolled his shoulders and head, making Grif have to turn away to avoid staring at Simmons' neck and jaw, a particular area of liking on his part. He slightly shakily put in one earplug, letting the other sit in his palm as he inspected the pistol.

"What time is it?" Simmons mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Three-ish," Grif answered, pointedly avoiding Simmons' gaze. Were he paying attention, he would have at least stopped to smirk at the fleeting expression of shock on his teammate's face.

"Oh. Shit. I've been here for-fucking-ever," Simmons realized aloud, then he turned a look of confusion on the back of Grif's head. "How are you even awake?"

"Dunno," Grif lied, punctuating his statement by loading a round into the pistol with a satisfying click, "Couldn't sleep."

"Huh," Simmons said quietly. Then he made to stand, stacking his papers into a neat pile as he asked, "How much ammo did you bring?"

Grif paused. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, don't do what I think you're going to_ , he pleaded desperately. He shrugged, then emptied the contents of his pockets onto the worktable.

Simmons took out his own pistol, which had been resting in its holster that had been loosely fastened around his thin hips. "Mind if I join you?" he asked. He paused midstride to scrub a small mark from the barrel before looking up at Grif.

 _Just kill me now, why don't you?_ Grif demanded of the god he was starting not to believe in as of today. "Not at all," he forced himself to turn and face Simmons so that his statement wouldn't be taken the wrong way, heat rising back up to his face by just seeing the man's face, who was giving him an almost indistinguishable smile. He returned the gesture, then handed Simmons a set of earplugs and left him to put them in, stepping into the shooting booth.

His target, a hand-painted sort of circle drawn hastily onto the green wall in regulation red, stood fearlessly against his aim. He closed an eye, locking the center of the target into his sights and then fired off a round. Three hit the wall with deadly accuracy, but the other three were splayed randomly across the large wall.

Grif felt a hand on his shoulder, and his head snapped over to see Simmons trying to speak to him. He took out an earplug.

"-is all wrong. You've got to keep your shoulders back and you sure as fuck don't need both hands at this range," Simmons finished.

"My _what_ is wrong? Grif asked, squinting slightly and ignoring the hand that still rested on his shoulder.

"Your _stance_ , dumbass. It's completely off. Here, try this," Simmons said, then put his other hand on Grif's gun-wielding one. He positioned Grif's arm to be straight out towards the target, then grabbed Grif's hip and pulled him flush against himself.

Grif could tell that his breath was erratic and his heartbeat was off the scale, but he could feel Simmons pressed against his back, hand resting loosely on his hip and his own hand.

"Better?" Simmons asked from just behind Grif, who let out a short breath and nodded. "Now try and shoot."

Grif put in his other earplug, feeling Simmons' thumb, warm on his skin. He inhaled sharply, looking down his arm at the target. His other arm was pulled back so his hand rested on his hip, and Simmons put his hand on top of Grif's to hold him in place. Six bullets impacted the wall, all dead center on the target.

Grif let out a breath, smiling as he turned to face Simmons. The shooting booth was smaller than he had remembered, and he and the other soldier were barely an inch and a half apart when Grif breathed, "Thanks."

Simmons couldn't help but stare into Grif's mismatched eyes, both full of excitement and something else he couldn't quite read. He grinned right back at Grif. "Yeah. I'm, ah, just doing my job, no need to thank me," he said in a rush.

Grif felt a burst of confidence enter his system, fear of losing Simmons' friendship momentarily dissipating as he said, "Is it your job to be so fucking hot?"

Regret hit him as soon as the words left his lips, especially after seeing Simmons' shocked expression. But the words were out now, and fuck it if he wasn't scared shitless by Simmons’ response, or rather, lack thereof.

Simmons wasn't sure if he had heard the other soldier correctly, and his voice came out in a squeak a while later. "What?"

"I-I didn't - I - what? No. Nothing! I, uhm, nothing," Grif stuttered out.

"I'm what?"

"You-you're hot, okay? You're so fucking hot, and I didn't tell you 'cause I knew you would freak out - oh, god, please don't freak out," Grif said quickly, familiar heat rising up to his cheeks.

Simmons stuttered out something - Grif suspected that it wasn't even English - as his expression slowly turned into a bewildered smile. "Are you serious?"

Grif's apprehension was gone when he saw that smile, that damned adorable smile, and he couldn't stop himself from leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Simmons' lips, his eyes fluttering shut when Simmons responded.

"Yeah," Grif breathed against the other soldier's mouth after having pulled back slightly. Simmons leaned forward to continue the kiss, which was somehow more electric than the first.


End file.
